"Well, Tigh, you know Uri."
"Only too well. A topflight troublemaker. You better watch him."
"Oh, I'm doing that all right. What's the state of the Vaile operation?"
"Everything proceeding smoothly."
"And elsewhere?"
"Good news, mostly. We just received information from the foundry ship Hephaestus that production of new vipers is now approaching optimum manufacturing rate. A number of the new models have already been transferred to the Galactica."
"I'm impressed. That should bring us close to full strength again."
"Correct."
"Good. That is good news, Tigh. Carry on."
After Tigh had left, Adama leaned back in his chair and reviewed his conversation with Uri. He could sense that the man was ready to provoke trouble again. He might even attempt another coup. But you couldn't lock a man away just for having the wrong notions. Still, he would bear watching. Close watching.
Starbuck's smile was as smooth as a viper launching. Cassiopeia almost couldn't resist it. But this time she was determined. Pushing at his shoulders, she tried to get out of the corner he'd angled her into. He backed away gracefully, still pressing his case.
"How about it, Cassie?"
"Don't call me Cassie, I told you."
"Cass? Cass's okay?"
"I can live with it."
"Well then, Cass, what do you say? You'll be off-duty soon. I've got a jugful of ambrosa, latest vintage. I cleaned and polished the old secret hideaway. We can simulate a—"
"Your line's wearing thin, Starbuck. I've heard this routine before."
"This's the first time you've complained."
He looked hurt. His pain was so boyish and appealing, she nearly gave in and said she'd go to the hideaway with him.
"Yeah, well," she said, "I've thought about it enough. Buy a new approach, Starbuck."
"C'mon, darling, I know you've been overworked and—"
"What? You call triple shifts in Life Center overwork? Seeing pain and blood and—you call that overwork? You call shipping corpses out a chute overwork? Starbuck, you—"
"Easy, easy."
He put his arms around her. His touch was so gentle that she wondered how she could turn him down. But, ever since her childhood when she'd vowed to be a socialator when she grew up, she always had been a demon when it came to resolutions, so she said:
"Sorry, sky pilot. I'm bushed. I'm just bushed. Hit me some other time, okay?"
"Bushed? I can revive those weary bones, Cass."
His cloying and patronizing confidence made her really angry.
"Starbuck, you louse, sometimes I could just—"
She whirled around and began to walk down the corridor away from him. He chased after her, pleading in a coaxing voice:
"Please, Cass, who knows what might happen my next patrol? I could get—"
That did it. She turned and glared at him, saying:
"Starbuck, don't you ever feel guilty, the way you treat women?"
"Who, me?"
His face displayed an innocence that anyone who didn't know him would have believed.
"I thought so, you slug."
She threw up her arms in despair and marched off. Starbuck stared after her, incredulous. He wasn't used to being turned down by any woman.
"What did I do now?" he muttered.
Cassiopeia's words stuck with him as he roamed the Galactica's corridors, looking for something to do. Had she been right about his treatment of women, about his "line," as she'd called it? Was he too cavalier, too inconsiderate? He did have his tricks, his ploys, his way with persuasive words, all of which he'd used on women in the past, with more success than not. At times he neglected to think of their feelings, of their needs. Maybe he should, as she suggested, feel guilty. He made a conscious effort to feel guilty, but the feeling would not come. He walked on.
Once he muttered aloud, "Me, guilty?"
Baltar sat on his command pedestal and surveyed the activity beneath him. Cylons scurried about. Well, he thought, they didn't exactly scurry, but they were lumbering along at a good clip. He had really whipped his crew into shape. They now followed his orders adeptly and with speed. His communication with them was nearly as efficient as the telepathic manner in which Imperious Leader sent messages to his officers. The next time he inspected Baltar's base-star, Imperious Leader was certain to be impressed.
Lucifer glided into the command room and approached the pedestal.
"Lucifer!" Baltar shouted happily.
"By your command."
"Is the viper of Ensign Greenbean now ready?"
"Affirmative, commander."
"And the mind-wipe?"
"It has been performed successfully. Once the ensign has traveled far enough, he will suddenly awaken in deep space and have no memories of ever having been captured. He will think he has strayed from his squadron. He will return to the Galactica, unaware of what we've done. There will be no clues to his imprisonment. Even the marks of torture have been removed from his body."
"And what exactly have we done, Lucifer? How does your device work from a distance?"
"Similarly to the computer network to which I am connected. I have planted several relays on the ensign's clothing. Some are in the form of buttons; others are so miniscule they are concealed in the threads of his garments. These relays will be activated by remote control. I will do the honors. When they are operative, the waves from the central unit, as programmed by me, will be transmitted outward through the button relays and will permeate every level of the Galactica."
Baltar grinned widely, considering the sweet revenge Lucifer's device would bring him. He could almost see Adama nailed to the wall.
"But won't Greenbean change his uniform once he gets aboard? What happens when he's not wearing it?"
"It is of no consequence. The relays will function effectively no matter where the clothing is put. They are composed of powerful but tiny Cylonate circuits that are virtually undetectable and indestructible. The Cylonate power will be tremendous, no need to worry yourself about that."
Lucifer's explanation elated Baltar.
"Splendid, splendid," he said joyfully. "Good work, Lucifer. I mean it. Really good work."
Lucifer was not immune to a compliment, even if it came from Baltar. The lights that gleamed from inside his bulbshaped head glowed noticeably brighter.
"Well," Baltar said, "what are we waiting for? Let's launch that viper!"
Lucifer turned to the centurion in charge of the base-star's launch bay and ordered:
"Strange as it seems to say it, launch the human's spacecraft."
The centurion began the elaborate Cylon countdown. As it progressed, Baltar whirled around on his pedestal chair, chuckling with satisfaction.
"It'll only be a matter of time now, Adama," he whispered. "This time it will be your head on the block, your head staring up at the falling axe."
Lucifer, his sensitive hearing circuits picking up his commander's whisper, studied Baltar for signs of madness. As Baltar cheered the launching of Greenbean's viper, it occurred to Lucifer that it was possible that Baltar's desire for revenge severely impaired his judgement.
CHAPTER THREE
Athena stared at her monitor screen absentmindedly, barely noticing the few blips and circles that represented the routine alignment of the fleet. Her thoughts were again on the lost pilots. They drifted ghostlike across her screen in a steady line. Her brother Zac led the march. Poor buoyant lovable Zac, his life cut off too soon. A little farther down the line were some of the cadets who'd barely learned to fly a viper before the ships became their coffins. She remembered particularly one cadet named Shields who was prone to practical jokes. His viper was turned into a fireball by a blast from the Ravashol cannon on the ice planet Tairac. Then there was "Killer" Killian, a happy-go-lucky adventurer, shot down while defending the Galactica shuttle from Cylon attack. Lining up with the rest of her taller fellow pilots was poor litt
le Gemi, pressed into service as a viper pilot when so many of the other warriors had been felled by that strange disease. She had been killed during the battle in the skies above Kobol. Only Athena and a few others had ever known of the crush that quiet Gemi had had for Starbuck. What a waste, Athena thought. Gemi was one of the few pretty young women around whom Starbuck had never hit on. Now she was dead.
As the line of dead pilots passed, Athena was astonished at how many of them had been friends and acquaintances. This was one of the by-products of war, she supposed, to have quick friendships that always could be ended abruptly by a stray Cylon laser beam. She hated living with the threat of unexpected death for all whom she knew, even for those she had never met. It had to end, she felt, but how? When?
Bringing up the rear of her imaginary march of deceased warriors was Greenbean. She didn't know why his passing had so affected her. She'd always liked him, yes, but she'd never spent much time with him. Most of their encounters occurred when he was in the company of other hotshot pilots, when Greenbean was usually hanging back and listening with amusement to their banter. Nevertheless, he'd become a symbol for her of all the dead pilots.
A flashing blip suddenly appeared at the right side of her screen. A blip where no blip should be.
"What—? Colonel Tigh, an anomaly in Sigma Sector."
Tigh was standing behind her an instant later, staring at the screen. Whatever kind of object the blip represented, it was heading toward the Galactica at high speed.
"Any I. D.?" Tigh calmly requested. Tigh was never calmer than when there was a possible threat to his ship.
"Too far away to tell," Athena said. "One thing sure, it's a lone spacecraft. No one else anywhere near it."
Tigh swung around and started barking orders.
"Rigel, scan for identification profile."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Sound yellow alert."
"Yes, sir."
"Ready emergency patrol for launch!"
Starbuck and Boomer rushed into launch bay together. "What's up, Boom-boom?"
"Got me, brother. I was asleep when this roust came."
"This is lucky."
"Lucky?"
"Boomer, I was on the worst run of pyramid draws since I was at the academy and playing the cadet sergeant-major for removal of demerits."
Catching the helmet tossed at him by his ground crew C. W. O., Jenny, Starbuck bounced onto the wing of his viper and performed his famous into-the-saddle leap into the cockpit.
Tigh raced around the control room, shouting orders as he went.
"Instruct the pilots to launch when ready."
"Transfering launch control to viper pilots."
Starbuck's voice could be heard on the open commcircuit.
"Ready, Boomer?"
"Roger."
"Launching!"
The bridge crew watched their monitors as the two vipers plunged down the launch tubes and out of the Galactica. They joined each other close by the ship and headed toward Sigma Sector.
"Anything on the anomaly, Rigel?" Tigh shouted.
"Aye, aye, sir," she answered. "It looks like a viper."
"A viper? But we don't have any patrols out now, do we?"
"Affirmative. Last patrol returned and logged."
"Then who is it? Alert the patrol. It might be another Cylon trap."
"Or one of our pilots, Colonel Tigh," Athena said, "one of our own pilots."
Tigh scowled at Athena.
"What?" he said. "Returned from the dead? There are no—"
"Let's wait and see, sir. I really think we've got one back, I really do."
Athena spoke with the kind of certainty characteristic of her father, and Tigh chose not to attempt to contradict it further.
"The unknown craft seems to be on a steady course for the Galactica," Rigel reported. "Red squadron vipers intercepting momentarily."
"It's not trying to avoid our vipers," Athena said. "It's coming right at 'em."
"Colonel?" Rigel said.
"Yes?"
"I have a visual on the intruder. Proceeding now with a scan of its markings."
"Keep at it, Rigel. Has the commander been informed?"
"Affirmative."
"He's here, Colonel," Adama said quietly. He was standing right behind Tigh and his voice, though soft, startled the colonel.
"Adama!" Tigh said. "How long—"
"I arrived only a moment ago. Carry on."
"Colonel!" Rigel shouted.
"What is it, Rigel?"
"We have a positive identification on the intruder. It is one of ours apparently. A Colonial Viper, Q series, full batteries, signed out to . . . let's see . . . signed out to Ensign Greenbean!"
"Greenbean!" Athena yelled. She whooped with delight. She recalled that just moments ago she'd been thinking about Greenbean. Had her will somehow brought him back?
"Take it easy, Athena," Adama said. "We only know that it's his viper. It might not be him inside it. Wait and see."
"It's him," Athena said. "I know it's Greenbean. I prayed for this."
"Cut the patrol vipers' commcircuit back in, Rigel," Tigh ordered.
"Cutting in . . ."
Starbuck's shout, amplified to such a degree it echoed around the control room, reverberated with joy.
"GREENBEAN! I don't believe—it's really you?"
Greenbean's voice was gentler than the brash lieutenant's.
"Why, sure. Who'd you think it was?"
"A ghost," Boomer said, "that's what I thought."
"Oh, I ain't no ghost. It's just me. I got lost, is all."
"Lost?" Starbuck said. "Do you have any idea how long you've been missing?"
"Well, no. Not long I guess. I just got lost during the battle. Don't know just how 'zackly. Blacked out all of a sudden. I came to, not far from here, just now."
"That doesn't make sense," Boomer said. "You know how long ago that little scrape was?"
"Well, no, guess I don't."
"We'll straighten it all out back on board the Galactica," Starbuck said. "C'mon, fellas, let's fly triad formation back. Impress the VIP's with our precision-flying skills, what say?"
"You got it, bucko," Boomer said.
"I'm with ya both," Greenbean said.
"Well, then, let's touch wing tips and give 'em a show." They did not of course touch wing tips. The phrase was hotshot lingo from the academy. What they did, and everybody aboard the Galactica watched the maneuver on monitors, was dip their wing tips toward each other in an elaborate parody of flight etiquette. Then they glided into a triangular formation.
Athena turned away from her console and gloated. She made especially sure her father saw her satisfaction. "See?" she said.
"Yes, I see," Adama answered, smiling. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, we got one back!"
The crew laughed and cheered. There was a great sense of relief and happiness in the room. The members of the crew couldn't stop glancing at each other and smiling. For a short while dereliction of duty was a virtue aboard the Galactica.
Adama approached Tigh and asked:
"Your evaluation?"
Tigh appeared doubtful for a moment, then he said:
"Sir, I'm happy about Greenbean, but—"
"Out with it, Colonel."
"He said he blacked out. That's a long time to be drifting around deep space, unconscious in a viper."
"My sentiments exactly. What do you advise?"
Tigh's voice dropped. Except for Athena, no one but Adama could now hear him.
"For starters, a thorough search of pilot and vehicle. Get a reading of the air inside the cockpit before the ground crew have pried it open. It should show normal signs of content deterioration after so many recyclings. Have Doctor Salik give Greenbean an intense physical. Everything. Especially scan the contents of his stomach to see when nutrition was last ingested. If he's consumed anything other than the normal survival input from viper energy-tubes, it should show up. Interview the pilot ex
tensively, monitor his reactions, use truth-scansion devices."
Adama nodded at each of Tigh's suggestions. He stared at the colonel beneath the frowning aspect of his thick dark eyebrows.
"Tigh, consider those advisements as orders, to be supplemented immediately—as soon as Greenbean's viper slides into launch bay. Don't allow the other pilots or crew anywhere near him until all the initial checks are accomplished."
"It's done, Adama."
Tigh strode off, giving orders as he went.
"What was that all about?" Athena asked. Adama detected the trace of annoyance in her voice.
"Normal cautionary procedures, Athena."
"Normal procedures? You're treating Greenbean like he's a spy. He's the least likely spy in the whole damn crew. Excuse me, father, but—"
"Athena . . ."
Adama spoke her name warningly, to remind her that she was not to invoke their father-daughter relationship while on duty. She caught the message but, angry as she was, would not allow herself to apologize.
"I just think it's important to trust—" she said.
Her persistence angered Adama.
"I trust Greenbean!" he shouted, then noticed the crew watching them. His voice became softer. "That's not the point. There's something . . . something odd about the way he's materialized so suddenly. I've learned never to trust what seems real until I've made every test of its reality."
"I know, I know. If it looks like a daggit, and seems like a daggit, and smells like a daggit, and walks—"
"It's not necessarily a daggit until you've made all the proper tests. I'm sorry, Athena. I am overcautious, no doubt about it. Just consider such precautions as part and parcel of the burdens of command. Learn from it. It may not, after all, be long before you—"
"I know, before I command a battlestar, although where you're going to manufacture this wonderful battlestar is beyond me. Apollo is destined for the Galactica if you indeed ever give it up. Right now, I'd consider myself lucky to be awarded the helm of the Colonial Movers Transport Ship."
"You know, I believe there may be a position opening up on that very ship."
"Please, Dad—please, commander, I was only joking."
"I'll take that factor into consideration."
Battlestar Galactica 11 - The Nightmare Machine Page 5